Beyond illusion
by Tsubasanoaru
Summary: A brief gaze at what is beyond illusion. A none sense piece of art that makes you endlessly wander and travel unbounded by time and space.


Once upon a time, the seven skies were created, at the windmill of time, where everything goes by, except us. Murderers of leaves, dwell within the tides of being truly unhappy. As they move on towards the hill of clouds, the two orphans retain a watch, a golden watch which has undefined numbers and directions. Time stops, at twelve O' clock, it was the time when the moon kisses the sun goodbye, one is raising and purging everything in the shadows. The other keeps the shadows safe, in its shattered blindness of dawn. The shadows gait hundreds of miles toward the finite dimness, where darkness kneels to its blackness profanely. That deep hole which sip both time and space, and takes them to the double quintupled box, not the one which has nine thousand drumsticks on, but the one in where silence resides, as the most horrifying sound that ever been existed. Horrifying indeed, deafness is the queen, dimness in the king. Both, they rule. A crack shadowed the palace of rainbows, causing troubles to one's heart, mind and soul. Only they exist, if the cadaver is safe, regardless psychological intimacies. Towards love, no one shall find whiteness. Only redness abides inside. Redness of pain, bloodshed, sexual ecstasies, foul roses. Spring roars on earth, clutching every single moment of madness, to haunt a scare in which one shall never remember what winter felt like. Poor little winter, hastily gone, lazing snow to the highest summits of nature. Pouring waters to the lowest slits as incursions. Mindlessly, the trades of the middle earth had been left uncolored, what a uniquely beautiful color is rain's. To some extent, clouds were never happy, and rather angry. Storming, thundering, and lightening. A light that can stab through every cloak of shadow, in meaningful times. Unconsciously rebirthing another crack of heaven. In there, swarms of angles are happy, endless growths of shine. It is happiness. The happiness which the murderers and the two orphans are searching for, through jars of gloom, bottles of doom, clocks behind the broom. At last, they meet under the shifting blanket of meteors, everything is vivid. The wind of gold is not temporary anymore, it is exceptionally ordinary. Their blurry eyes peep daybreak's bells. the sea of blood was at the right sight. They dive into it, it became blue now. The color of their mother's eyes. The color of a spotless fascinating sky, before the storm of hope hails through sunset and turns it red again. The forbidden lover knew it was a heaven's drive, they kept him moving for a long way down. A kind of milky way with round strips of lies and truth. It was the only link towards the promised land, where love flies. They know its worth, so they draw their hearts into the filthy dream. The new world which calls out all the ghosts in my room. Who keep choiring, fate, fate, fate, fate, fate, fate, fate, fate. This groan causes swell in the sun which in the parallel universe turns into snow drops and honey smells. They finally get out of the shell which kept their spirit dreams locked inside, after a maze of brilliant years. Forcedly, they had to transform into different kinds of vivid colors, to overcome the dark in their life, in mine as well. Winter fall again, "Neverland really exists" said the desperate angel with a silent jealousy in his voiceless screaming. It was dawn, the joker stab me in the back, disillusioning his sadistic desire. I crucified my love ever since. The amethyst was my inimitable art of life, and still is. My tears broke down simplicity and gave birth to the blood rain. A song was played at my anniversary, as I'm holding the rose of pain, the eyes of Venus penetrated mine, and let energy flow to through my black diamonds. A standing sex became pure virginity. I said goodbye, plucking the eyes of that blue blood rain in my heart. Rusty nails, poses, weekends, the white poems, every antique piece of painting. The phantom of guilt gave me the pleasure to kill, to lose my dears, and to be alive. It was destined, shutting from the sky blamed all dead. In the air in its inner core, mirrors show infinite moving pictures. The owl of fire sleeps at last, beside the fadeless machine, looking at the sun above, until it burns out. Peculiarities are forever there as the last bouquet of a defective marble hell vision.


End file.
